


A Promise To Keep

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's much more of a reflex than a careful calculation but he can't seem to stop himself, he needs this, and when his hand finally covers hers it feels like a silent promise."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Truth

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the season 2 finale. Was intended to be a one-shot, but will now probably turn into my hiatus multi-chap fic. Enjoy!

There's something wrong and it's not a gunshot.

Her expression is too calm, too contained. It's the shock, he thinks, but no, it's something else as well and anxiety grows within him. When he tells Dembe goodbye, it feels strangely final. At least for now, it's just him and Lizzie.

If she lets him. If whatever is on her mind won't sabotage his plans.

He wasn't shocked when he heard the news. Surprised certainly, but not shocked. He doesn't know the exact circumstances, not yet, doesn't know what exactly made her pull the trigger, but she's always been a fighter, a warrior. It's who she is. It's what she's capable of.

He knew what he had to do. He always suspected that one day he'd have to make this call, get on a plane, take her with him. There was something so  _classic_  about it, the agent and the criminal. This is how legends start. But he doesn't have time to think of fairytales. She's put herself in grave danger, has made herself a target of both worlds. Expects him to save her.

_Now you see? You make it sound like treason, so black and white. It's not, it's green._

"I remember," she says as he walks towards her and he stops. He thinks he misunderstood. He hopes he misunderstood.

"I remember everything." She says it again as if it's nothing. As if this isn't earth-shattering to the both of them.

He asks for no reason in particular, maybe his own peace of mind or whatever is left of it, because of course he knows what she's referring to. That one fateful night. Her memory that ceased to exist at his command. Because no child should live with the guilt of killing her father. Because she can't be held responsible for her actions. Just another gun, just another trigger. And a powerful man falling to the floor all those years ago. Cruel, relentless. And yes, incredibly powerful. Sometimes justice works in strange ways.

"I know what happened."

It stings. The mere admission, it hurts him and he can't take his eyes off her. He needs her to retell the tale, needs to know what she remembers, even though he can barely breathe. The way she looks at him causes his defenses to shatter, causes all the disguises he had so carefully crafted to vanish irreversibly. He had tried so hard to protect her; he had failed so miserably.

And now it's over. And he's still listening to her confession.

"That's why you blocked my memory. Not to protect yourself…To protect me."

She's waiting for his reaction- a sober confirmation is all he can utter. There's a storm coming his way, devastating and all-encompassing, ready to break him. Everything seemed to make sense earlier, he had a plan as he always does, and he's used to being on the run, has been for the last twenty years, and yet this is so much more consequential. He's at a complete loss and he knows she's never seen him like this but he doesn't know how to make it stop. And what if she leaves?

But her expression is not what he anticipated and when he sits down next to her he leaves no room between them and she, well, she doesn't move away and at least there's comfort in that. He can feel it, her eyes fixed on him, the weight on his shoulders as she comes to her final conclusion,  _you're my sin eater_ , and it sounds sympathetic, maybe even grateful, but certainly not angry. And he's struggling, takes his time, wants her to stay, wants her to  _just stay_ because this is not what he intended for her. He never wanted her to be like him.

He expects many things, terrible things, agonizing things. He expects rejection, braces himself, and his hand trembles, it trembles because he is terrified of losing her and he just wants her to hold on. The thought of touching her right this moment, well, it would be everything to him. Absolution and forgiveness. Vulnerability and trust. There's always been such a strong pull between them.

It's much more of a reflex than a careful calculation but he can't seem to stop himself, he needs this, and when his hand finally covers hers it feels like a silent promise. Mere seconds, that's all he gets. She doesn't pull away. It's enough.

When the car approaches he leads her inside, his hand on her back.

"I'm scared," she tells him after minutes of silence.

"I know," he responds. "But it's going to be fine. You and I, Lizzie, we are going to be fine." And that's all he has to offer. She doesn't even ask where they're going. And then she leans her head on his shoulder and shuts her eyes and he stays completely still.

This is closure. This is redemption. This is her telling him she feels safe in the sweetest and most poignant of ways and he's never known a longing quite as strong as this.

He waits until he's certain, until he knows she's fast asleep. As he sinks down in his seat, he pulls her closer, puts his arm around her, softly takes hold of her hand. Turns and kisses her hair and memorizes every impossible detail of her body against his.

He can make them disappear, can weather the storm for both of them.

"We are going to be fine," he whispers once more.

He hopes she believes him.


	2. Holding On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading!

She feels lost.

She's never been in this neighborhood, doesn't know anyone who lives here.

Then again that's the whole point. Red had told her where to go. Now she's here. Now she waits.

She doesn't know exactly what for.

He didn't even ask for an explanation, she realizes.  _Why did you shoot him, Lizzie? What happened?_  No, none of that.

_Where are you?_

They don't have much time. He doesn't need a reason.

_I will get you out._

And now she's sitting on a bench. Ready to leave everything behind.

She almost destroyed him. Her constant suspicion, her constant accusations. His broken expression she has come to memorize that is reserved exclusively for her, that carries her name. The pain she has imposed on him. A bullet in his chest.

She had been so hard on him. Cruel even. Had tried to shield herself from more manipulation, had tried fervently to make sense of it all, this ruthless criminal that, well, that simply isn't just that. That protects her and guards her for some greater good he can't even define. Because he's selfish, because she's merely a pawn in his game. Except that she isn't. Except that he cares so deeply. Except that she can't bear the thought of losing him.

_Your girlfriend, the princess._

She wonders if he knows about Tom and suddenly feels sick. She doesn't understand herself why she did it, only that she is sorry and maybe one day she'll have the strength to admit that to Red. Maybe she'll have the strength to apologize. That spark of self-destruction, maybe that's what caused it. There's a bitter taste on her tongue that continues to linger.

That's all secondary. That was before.

Before she became a wanted fugitive.

There's blood on her hands. Death and darkness. And she's completely numb.

She wonders how long it will take for her to come to terms with what she's done. To suffer the repercussions of her actions. She anticipates panic and fear and hysteria. But nothing.

Maybe it's the shock.

Or maybe these reactions require regret. Guilt. Maybe that's what she's lacking.

There's no cure or remedy this time. Some things can't be fixed. Some things have to be endured. Some scars never heal.

_Nobody can murder someone in cold blood and come out_ _okay_ _on the other_ _side._

She just shot a man. She killed her own father. She once called a man a monster.

She just might be one herself.

And she's still breathing just fine.

The black Mercedes comes to a full stop in front her. She watches Red bid Dembe goodbye, his confidant, and it slowly becomes clear that this won't be fixed easily, no, this will take time and this will be just them.  _We're gonna make a great team._ He's not smiling this time.

 _I remember_ , she tells him without warning when he steps forward. There's no preamble to this. And why would there be. Confessions require no introduction.

He looks lost. Uncertain even. And that terrifies her.

_I remember everything._

She explains carefully but bluntly and never takes his eyes off of him. Witnesses how every single word of her admission seems to tear him apart. Piece for piece. Irreparable damage.

He's the strongest man she knows. Right now she thinks he'll shatter right in front of her.

She has never seen anyone look this devastated.

Completely and utterly broken.

He can barely speak and doesn't dare to look at her and of course she detects these things and of course she understands now. The fact that he'd rather endure her hate than burden her with her personal sins. Childhood tragedies. Painful memories.

_You are my sin-eater._

He thinks he's failed. And she's so sorry. For everything.

With her eyes still fixed on his profile, she senses a movement and finally warmth.

His hand is shaking. Faintly, but she notices because this is new. This is unusual.

If she moves, she will come undone. If she reciprocates his grasp, she will never let go. It's the only truth she knows. And this is not the time to break down. But she doesn't flinch either and that's the key and she knows he'll accept.

It's not about grand gestures. It never has been. No, it's exactly this. The nonverbal moments when the simplest touch anchors them both. When a trembling hand is the only object keeping her from losing her mind, keeping her from being swallowed by her own demons. Fleeting seconds she can hold on to.

When he leads her towards the gray van, she doesn't ask questions. Focuses on the light touch on her back instead.

When she's seated next to him, she lets go. Crosses the proverbial lines in the sand, initiates contact, offers him trust. Tries to escape, to forget.

She thinks of wine bottles and stories about fish. She thinks of a tango and the sweet timbre of his voice telling her about seduction. She remembers a music box and his breath in her hair and she wonders how many lifetimes have passed since then. She thinks of a dance in an embassy and his capable hands softly guiding her. Thinks of him holding her close on a boat. Him next to her on a couch. Him across from her in a chair. And it hurts. It all hurts so terribly.

And then she feels it, his arm around her and the heat emanating from his body, his chest rising slowly and reassuringly with every breath. He almost died mere weeks ago and she wants to scream or cling to him or maybe both. Instead she keeps her eyes closed, feigns sleep, feigns peace. An innocent lie for the sake of comfort.

She hears him whisper, almost inaudibly.

He's all she has now. And that's something, isn't it?

It's going to be okay.  _He_  will make it okay.

He always has.


End file.
